


What We Hear

by flinchflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Father-son heart to heart, M/M, Schmoop, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 66: Penny.  John sits Sam down and has a heart to heart with him. Toronto arc continues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Hear

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not for profit, simply a writing exercise. Herein lies Dean/Sam slash, in an AU timeline where John did not lose his life. John appears in parental context only. Follows in series from previous prompts, but stands alone if preferred.

It was an effort but John finally tracked Sam down, intently scanning the landscape finally rewarded with his son’s silhouette. His approaching footsteps were slow, Sam did not give any response whatsoever to the carefully planned noise. John had to take a moment to breathe, tired from the tracking and the hike, and having to repress the natural response to yell at Sam for not defending against the approach of a potentially hostile unknkown. Sam wasn’t supposed to be practicing his woodscraft, he was supposed to be meditating, blocking out the world around him, and John felt a surge of pride as he reminded himself of that, because Sam had given absolutely no sign that he recognized someone was near. Agreeing to the lessons wasn’t an option until Grey had thrown up his hands and told John that he’d watch over Sam himself. Actually, John was pretty thankful that was the case, because he’s not so sure he’d have found his son, otherwise – it was Grey’s trail he finally picked up on, Sam’s is virtually nonexistent, and another rush of pride goes through him.

For some reason, Sam’s good at the woodscraft, better than Dean, just like he can pick a lock better than his brother. But that’s not what he wants, right now. The orange light of the setting sun sets Sam’s hair to glowing, and John’s smiling softly when Sam opens his eyes.

“Dad.”

John nods, takes a seat near his boy. Sam’s eyes slide off across the canyon, unfocused and distant. He suspects that Sam recognized his presence somehow, certain bits Grey’s lessons are centered around Sam remaining calm, and observing quietly, and there have been times in the last day or two where Sam’s known a little more than he should have about what’s going on around him. Others have Sam exploring his own self, finding somewhere quiet, somewhere strong.

Only problem is, John knows, when you build up your defenses, it means shining a klieg light on every vulnerability. “Penny for your thoughts,” he says some time later.

The question seems to fog Sam back into his own thoughts, and it takes John clearing his throat to pull him out again.

“Could get used to this,” Sam says, waving a hand at the wilderness in front of them. It’s hard to say that to John, but he realizes it didn’t need to be, with the compassion and understanding that his father conveys without speaking. “I’d rather have it than the city, now,” he says, “but I don’t know about Dean.”

John sits back for a while before he replies. “There’s balance in all things.” It wrings a laugh out of Sam, and the harsh sound is painful. It’s not just the setting sun shining on Sam’s scars, it’s hearing them, too, and John’s all too aware of lifetime of wounds crossing Sam’s being, That’s his baby boy there, hurting, so he slides over next to him.

“Sammy,” he says as his arm curls around the broad shoulders, and suddenly his voice is spilling over stories he’s never told the boy, building them up as he goes. Holding Sammy the first time Mary left the house without him. The fact that the first thing Sam ever spoke purposefully to him, the first word that wasn’t “dee” or “dada,” because Sam used them for everything for the longest time, the first word he heard from Sam was the word “tickles,” when John’s beard brushed him. How the only thing that consoled Sammy when Dean went to first grade all day was sitting in John’s lap listening to John read from the Latin primer he’d been studying. How he’d been afraid when Sam came home from his first full day of school smugly waving perfect papers, and a letter from the teacher warning John not to push Sam so hard to learn, because it might interfere with the school’s teaching methods. 

On and on John spoke, through his memories of Sam, just little ones, and there wasn’t a sound from his normally loquacious son, just Sam’s head on his shoulder and some tears soaking into John’s worn flannel. It was there, on the side of that mountain, that he finally told Sam about his memories of the boy at Stanford, admitting he’d been there watching, that the first hope came into Sam’s eyes since Dean had dragged him from Palo Alto. 

John wasn’t sure where it was all coming from, he felt like his backbone had shot down into the mountain and was holding him there, upright, so he could be a pillar for his tall son. Sam sank down to lay in John’s lap, like he hadn’t since he was a teenager and Dean had been hurt on a hunt, and it had taken John’s presence to eventually assuage his fears. The strong, intelligent, talented man Sam had become blended with the frightened, petulant, absentminded child he’d been in John’s vision, and he finally understood that those things would always be a part of his son, weren’t something Sam would grow out. He still needed his father to confide in, to guide him, and likely to discipline him, and knowing that Sam needed him let something in John relax.

Eventually Sam sits up, stares intently at John, and finally puts his arms around his father. “I needed to hear that.”

John nods. “We… Sam, Sammy. This’ll all be over soon, Sam, and there’s more to hear. I just… I’m not strong enough to tell you, most days.”

“Me neither,” he said, and they were so alike, he and his father. “M’I in trouble?”

“Trouble – Sam, why-“

“You came out here to get me,” Sam says, shamefaced.

John digs in a pocket and comes up with a handful of nuts and dried fruit, pours half into his son’s strong hand. “Came out here to talk to you, Sammy. Let’s go find some supper.” 

Sam nods. “I’m out of water, anyways,” he says without thinking, and then falters.

John just gives him a smile. “Tomorrow’s another day to get it right,” he says, glad when Sam relaxes. “But don’t let me hear you complaining that the peanuts made you thirsty before we get back to camp,” he says, and gives Sam a light swat on the behind. His son laughs, and leads their team back towards the safety of the cave, and Dean.


End file.
